


Konstantine

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: AU, M/M, The Little Mermaid reimagined, girl!Chester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chester is willing to go all out to get the guy he likes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Konstantine

Chester is wearing sunglasses. It’s dark inside but when the light hits them you can see your reflection staring back at yourself with an unimpressed expression on your face. He crouches down and unzips his bag, pulls out a pair of stiletto heels. Whilst he straps his feet into them you watch and the balls of your feet ache at the idea.

“What are you doing?”

“Learning to dance.”

The 1-2-3 beat of the music, swirling couples stepping on each others feet.

When he demanded you come with him but wouldn’t tell you where, you never imagined this is where you’d end up. Dance class. This is all Brad’s fault.

“Chester, he isn’t gay.”

Chester stands up, points his toes in his stilettos and grins, “I know, he’s straight.” Thoughtfully, “I can’t dance.”

You’re confused but you just shake your head and go along with it. He takes your hand and drags you into the main hall. An old church hall, high ceilings and loose wooden floor boards that clack every time Chester’s stilettos touch them. You always loved playing The Waltzes by Chopin more than any other piece of music. People laughed. You’re really not surprised that people thought you were gay in high school. Trouble is, you still believed you were straight back then.

The couples in the room stare at you both. You’re wearing baggy jeans and an old shirt with a mysterious stain on one sleeve that never washes out. Chester is dressed similarly save for the stilettos.

You place your arm around his back, just below his shoulder blade. His hand rests gently in yours, the other burning a hole in the shoulder of your shirt. In time with the music. Gentle and Chester is surprisingly graceful and you can’t help but wonder if he’s practised at home in those stilettos.

Forward, side, together. You grin. Back, side, together.

Chester’s tongue peeks out, his brows knitting together in concentration as the music picks up pace and he loses his footing, a pointed heel stabbing through the toe of your sneaker. This is obviously important to him so you smile when he looks at you, crest fallen. You smile and start moving again.

You’re there for what seems like hours. Chester began to relax half way through and acted the part. His posture gave him an air of confidence, his head held high and he smiled delicately the entire time but you still don’t see what this had to do with winning Brad over.

Brad works with Chester. Office work. You can picture Chester falling in love with him over the water cooler whilst on a break. You’ve been his best friend since junior high and have taken note of his tendency to fall in love hard. He came to your place one afternoon with a dreamy smile and you only had to ask for the name of this guy.

“Brad Delson,” he had said softly, “I really like him.”

“Is he gay?”

Hesitant. “No.” Determined. “But I really like him, Mike.”

You held up your hands in defence and said, “Hey, I didn’t say you couldn’t go for him.”

So that’s exactly what Chester did. He went for him. He got shot down. He cried in your arms. He drank. He cried some more. He went to work the next day as if nothing had happened.

Now it was the dance. An annual ball hosted by a friend of Chester's father - Brad’s dad.

Small world.

You say, as you step back, side, together “If he’s straight, why would he dance with you?”

There’s a moment of awkward silence and, even though he hasn’t taken off his sunglasses you can see his eyes flicker with agitation. “Because he won’t be dancing with me.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.

“Yeah...”

“He won’t be dancing with Chester,” he pauses, dramatic effect and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “He’ll be dancing with Carmen.”

Carmen. Chester’s favourite opera.

“Please don’t tell me...”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.”

Once the class is over Chester goes up to the instructor and asks her something in a hushed tone. She raises her chin and lifts herself up slightly, standing taller. She takes a few small steps onto the dance floor, her long grey hair swishing from side to side as she walks. She then takes what you learned today is called the ‘closed position’, holding her arms around an invisible partner. Chester thanks her, runs (staggers, shuffles) over to where you sit in a hard plastic seat.

He drops to the ground and unfastens his high heels, sliding his feet into his sneakers. You catch a brief glimpse of one foot, deep red marks cutting into the skin where the stilettos fasten. You ask, “Does it hurt, walking in those?”

Chester says it does. But pain is beauty and that’s all that matters.

***

You get a phone call whilst you’re rummaging through your closet for the three piece suit you bought for your father’s funeral two years ago. You grab the phone and jam it between your shoulder and your ear, muttering a tired “hello?”

“I need your help.”

“I’m busy Chester,” you sigh, digging through a suitcase full of clothes you should have taken to the Salvation Army months ago.

“I can’t do my makeup right.”

“I can’t find my freakin’ suit.”

“I think I have the hang of eye liner now...and lipstick...”

“I know it’s here somewhere. God Damn it!”

“...but eye shadow baffles me. Am I supposed to highlight or use dark colours?”

“Fucking...” you hand curls around a suit bag hanging behind an old grey coat you grew out of years ago. You pull it out and unzip it, beaming at the black suit inside, the white tie hanging neatly around the shoulders of the jacket. “You highlight your brow bone.” You tell Chester.

“My what?”

“I’ll be over in half an hour.”

***

When the door opens in front of you it’s hard not to laugh. Chester looks flustered. Wearing only boxers he clutches a tube of mascara for dear life. Says, “I can’t do it!” before hurrying inside and racing upstairs.

You close the door behind you and follow your friend, find him in front of the bathroom mirror staring helplessly at his reflection. You can’t help but smile at him. It isn’t often Chester asks for your help and when he does, it’s always to do with a guy.

You grab the vanity case sitting on the toilet seat and place it on the floor, gesturing for Chester to sit down. “What colour is your dress?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment before saying “pale pink.”

You grab the applicator, covering it with a powdery pink eye shadow. Chester instinctively closes his eyes. One hand on his forehead, gentle pressure, the other sweeps the powder across his eyelid. You repeat this on the other eye before blowing softly.

As you cover the other side of the brush in a silvery colour Chester says, “You know way too much about makeup, Mikey.”

You blush and say “close your eyes.” As you use the light colour on his brow bone you mumble and excuse about watching your sister. You ask “did you pluck your eyebrows?”

He waits until you’ve coloured both of his eyes before nodding slowly. He asks, “Are you done?”

You’re not. You use blush to make his cheek bones look higher and lip liner to make his lips fuller. You coat his eyelashes in mascara, separating them with the fine toothed comb buried in the bottom of the vanity case. Eventually you smile, murmur “Yeah, I’m done.”

You stand up and wander back through into the bedroom, spot his dress hanging on the closet door and the stilettos underneath it. It’s pale pink, strapless and beautiful. A mannequin head is on the bedside table, a neat, curly blonde wig resting upon it. It’s all very sad, but you give Chester a reassuring smile when he produces a bustier and a pair of tiny panties timidly.

“Will you help me lace it up?”

“Sure.” You look away as he changes from his boxers into the little panties. You’re not really sure how you should look at him right now but you keep thinking, maybe he really does love Brad.

You want to kill yourself after five minutes of battling with the bustier. Every time you pull one ribbon tight the other loosens. It’s driving you crazy and Chester is constantly reminding you that he has to look feminine, keeps slapping at your hands blindly when you tug a ribbon too tight and he splutters.

It takes time, but eventually you’re both satisfied. You smile at him when he giggles and hurries over to where his dress his hanging. “Mike...”

“Yeah?”

Chester takes the pink dress from the coat hanger and unzips the back. Softly, “nothing.” He steps into the gown, balancing on one foot and almost falling over. Pulls it up and murmurs, “Zip me up?”

As you do so he slips his feet into the stilettos, wincing in pain as they bite into his feet. He sits on the edge of the bed fastening them awkwardly, his face tight with pain and you clear your throat awkwardly.

“You know,” you watch him wander over to the bedside table, removing the wig and making his way back over to the mirrored door of the closet. “You won’t be able to talk you him, you know that right?”

Chester nods, hmm, and goes back to clipping his wig in place. Once he is satisfied with the way it looks he smiles at his reflection and blows himself a kiss. “I’m going to be mysterious. I’m going to lure him in with my silence.”

For the first time that night you tell him, “This is stupid, Chester.”

“That’s Carmen to you. And I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think about this.” He opens the closet and rummages through for a while before producing a diamond necklace. He fastens it so it lies just above the top of the empty cups of the bustier which is hidden neatly beneath his dress. “Now are we going,” he hisses impatiently, “or not?”

***

You always hated the ball. It reminded you of your prom, sitting in the corner in an itchy black suit with an awkward smile on your face. Chester hasn’t spoken a word since you both stepped through the door but his lips are pressed together and you can tell he’s in agony. Those shoes...

He nudges you, a sharp elbow jabbing into your rib. He nods silently as a guy in a smart suit crosses the dance floor towards the drinks table (punch, of which you have already had too much). The guy is slim with short, curly brown hair and a sarcastic smile. Half of you hates him instantly. The other half doesn’t care.

This is Brad. The Brad. And you can’t muster up anything but a half assed shrug. “All this,” you say, gesturing to the dress, the shoes, “for him?”

Chester nods and gets to his feet slowly, wincing ever-so-slightly. He skirts the edge of the dance floor, his head held high and his feet one in front of the other the way the dance teacher had shown him the day before. You see Brad look up as Chester approaches, his face never changing, the sarcastic grin ever present.

Chester holds out his hand (painted nails, pale pink of course) and Brad takes it in his and leads him to the dance floor. You catch Chester’s eyes as the music strikes up once more. A waltz, and they assume the closed position wordlessly.

They never speak; their lips so close together they’re breathing each other’s breath. You watch them move around the dance floor surrounded by people. Surely Brad knows who it is. Surely he has noticed the strong jaw bone, the broad shoulders and the laboured breathing because the bustier had to be tied tightly before Chester had any kind of figure.

You can see the pain etched into your friend’s face; you remember the way your sister always hobbled around after she’d worn stilettos to go out in. “It’s like walking on knives.” She’d said.

Chester’s voice rings through your head. Pain is beauty...

A girl you saw here last year comes over and asks if you’d like to dance. Be polite, shake your head and say “I’m waiting for someone.”

You go back to watching Chester and Brad twirl around the dance floor, your eyes fixed on Chester’s full of pain. You can imagine his feet pulsing, white hot, 1, 2, 3.

Despite yourself, you can’t help but think he’s beautiful.

You jump to your feet and stride towards the doors of the hall. This is too much. Outside everything is dark, the moon a dull glow against the cloudy sky. You pull a packet of Marlboro’s from your shirt pocket along with a bright pink plastic lighter. You suck the filter, light the cigarette and exhale a cloud of smoke around yourself. The only thing you want to do is go home, but you know you’re Chester’s ride, tipsy or not.

You’ve casually smoked your way through your packet of cigarettes when the doors behind you open. It’s Chester and you say “Hey, Carmen.” Just in case Brad has followed him out.

“I want to go home.”

You blink. He reaches out and grabs your last cigarette from between your finger, taking a long drag before flicking it into the road. “I want to go home now.”

“Why? What happened?” You turn to him and notice his wig is messy and the back of his dress unzipped slightly. His perfect lipstick is smeared around his mouth and you really don’t want to hear the answer any more.

A hitched breath, “take me home, Mike.”

You wrap a careful arm around his waist and guide him down the street in silence. His body shakes slightly and you know he’s crying. Gently, “Your mascara will run, Carmen,” and Chester laughs tearfully. You stop at your car and zip his dress all the way up, wipe the lipstick from around his mouth and tears from his cheeks softly. “So much for Prince Charming, huh?”

Through his tears, Chester murmurs a thank you. Wets his lips and kisses your cheek. You’re not sure how to feel about this. He knows you’re lonely and you have the urge to tell him you don’t need his sympathy. Instead you say, “If it’s any consolation, you’d make a really pretty girl.”

He walks slowly around to the passenger side wearing a shy smile and in the dark you’re not sure if the flush of his cheeks is natural or it it’s the makeup. Or maybe the moon. Or maybe it’s the punch and the nicotine flowing through your body.

Chester is sitting beside you with his legs crossed neatly over one another and even in the dark of the car you can see that his feet are bright red.

“You can take them off now,” you say, gesturing to his stilettos as you start the car.

He shakes his head, the curls of his wig brushing his shoulders gently. “Pain is beauty.”

He reaches one perfectly manicured hand out and turns on the stereo, the music blaring. But all you can hear is pain is beauty. And you drive away.


End file.
